


Shrike To Its Thorn

by dovahdove



Series: remember me, love, when I'm reborn; [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bill Weasley Is A Proper Idiot, Black Hermione Granger, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Hermione Granger is So Done, M/M, Minor Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sort Of, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Underage - Freeform, Werewolf Mates, not really underage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25549417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovahdove/pseuds/dovahdove
Summary: Instead, it goes like this: Mr. and Mrs. Granger are thrilled when, unlike themselves, their little Hermione is born with words etched into her tiny forearm. It is a blessing, to be sure, and they know, from that moment on, that their daughter isspecial.But there’s a slight setback, one that the Weasley household shares in regards to their eldest son—her words are quite plain, a simplenice to meet you, Hermione.(Ahelloagainst pale rib, in Bill’s case.)One can go about half their lives without realizing their soulmate has been there the whole time.Which, they do.
Relationships: Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Cedric Diggory/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Bill Weasley, Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley
Series: remember me, love, when I'm reborn; [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851397
Comments: 9
Kudos: 105





	Shrike To Its Thorn

**Author's Note:**

> It's funny—when I was a little kid, I never paid much mind to the Weasleys. Now, as maturity kicked in, I finally realized what a dime this family truly is! Mind you, I never read much fan-fiction centered around them, and my memory of the books is quite fuzzy (I'm re-reading some chapters as we speak) so it might not be the best characterization, but hopefully you'll forgive if my first attempt (not only at the characters, but at this certain AU and angst, too) is not up to par with other works on this site. It still unnerves me to upload on AO3 when English is not my first language, and wonderful, high-quality stories litter every single fandom left, right, and center. But I hope you'll give this little story a shot! x

**BILL IS EIGHT** and _howling_ when he wakes his family up on the Nineteenth of September.

He hisses and claws at his rib, the pain biting back at the intruding touch as he is _branded_ and, _Merlin_ , does it _burn_. He turns his bleary eyes to the cot beside his, to his brother lying on the bed. He tries to form words, to convey the panic and helplessness and _I'mdying_ and—

Bill doesn't rouse Charlie from his slumber; he doesn't need to—his little brother is already wide-eyed and frantic, rushing through doors and stairs to get to their parents, past the fiery head of Percy peering fearfully from his room at the early morning commotion.

Once Arthur and Molly Weasley, sleep-deprived and exhausted as they were, come to the realization that: yes, Charlie is actually standing at the foot of their bed and, no—it's not their two toddlers screaming their tiny lungs out, it's _Bill_ , they jerk up from their mattress.

**(** The war is in full swing, yet, and the Order is pressed into the wall; there's no such thing as a false possibility or misconception, only carelessness and bloodshed and death.

The Weasleys are not taking any chances, however slim. **)**

Mr. Weasley holds the door to let his wife waddle out first, one hand going to support her swollen belly, the other clutching at her wand to ward off any intruders that seek them harm as the parents descend the creaking staircase. Arthur takes the lead soon after when they near the boys' shared bedroom, hearts in their throats and hammering their ears, ready for everything and nothing and anything in between as they round a corner and—

**(** Oh. **)**

_Ah_.

Molly releases a deep exhale, one that lightens the body and swivels the head, numb fingers tightening on her pelvis as Arthur's thumb draws soothing circles across her shoulder.

Charlie, however, is still clouded in trepidation and anxiety.

"Is he going to be okay, Dad?" The Weasley patriarch glances down at his worried boy, at his wringing hands and round eyes, and his heart swells in his chest. His hand tangles in between red strands as he ruffles Charlie's hair, offering a comforting smile he had directed to his wife a moment ago.

"Don't you worry, Charlie. Your brother is going to just fine."

And Arthur is right, for seven minutes after Molly starts brushing out Bill's long **(** she should really trim them once he wakes **)** bangs out of his flushed face, his breathing lets up from the previous strained pants, fist unclenching the cotton of his pajamas. His mother, after a beat, once she is positive the scorching pain has went away in full, lifts her son's sweaty shirt up to his armpits, and the other two— _three_ —occupants shuffle forwards to take in the source of Bill's agony.

There, on his bottom rib, in a loopy, confident scrawl, Bill's soulmark glimmers against pale skin.

But Molly frowns, and so does Arthur.

_Hello_.

**(** Well, that's not much to go by, is it? **)**

And it's true, for the pair had been one of the lucky ones; the cursive scribble of _Muggle Studies is quite a subject to dedicate yourself to_ and the answering remark of _believe it or not—they're not so different from us_ had been unmistakable and authentic, and even _molding_ in their youth as they pondered the circumstance that would lead them to utter such words to somebody, doing whatever it took to fit into a situation that called upon such a subject matter. 

To receive a soulmark is rare enough as it is, but to actually unite with your mate when you get anchored down with what many deem a _cold_ mark—

Bill is upset when he awakes, to say the least.

Head lowered, chin brushing against his collarbone, he stares at the scripture coiling at the protrusion of rib and flesh, and his mouth quivers.

It breaks Molly's heart to see her son so crestfallen at something so _wonderful_ and yet easily unobtainable at the same time, if one treads carelessly. She knows what a tender heart her eldest possesses amidst the adventurous spark and the rustling of pages. He had been ecstatic just shy over a year ago, when his playmates had shown off their own unique marks. The Weasleys, in turn, were haggled to answer all of his outlandish inquiries; his excited and anxious assumptions.

And they entertained him, because, _yes_ —late bloomers contributed the better half of those who develop soulmarks, and he might just be blessed with one of them someday, too.

As a result, Bill grows expectant; he feeds into his fantasies of a great love awaiting him with stories and books and tales, calms himself every morning when his body doesn't reveal any other markings besides the freckles littering his skin. He assures himself that, _soon_ , ink will reveal the person that was made for him— _just_ for him.

But Arthur and Molly, happy as they were that their son was taking the prospect of a soulmate so seriously and endearingly, were always careful as to not get his hopes up too much.

After all, nobody can say for certain when **(** or, if _ever_ **)** the soulmark will appear. Arthur has read various studies that indicate the birth of the younger half of the equation ushers in the soulbond after both souls start a brand new cycle together.

However, that's from his accumulated _Muggle_ research from differing papers and snippets he had gotten his hands on throughout the years. On the wizarding side of things, it is the first burst of _magic_ that kick-starts the chain of events leading up to one's 'happily ever after'. He was seven himself when Molly had shown her first bout of accidental magic and, that night, back in 1957, the pair had both whittled in pain until their voices were scarce and their newly marked skin slick with sweat.

Regardless, the notion of his soulmate being born just now doesn't sit well with the eight-year-old as he glances at his salivating baby brothers clinging at his father's arms, and the swell of his mother's tummy. His face scurries up when he tries to imagine the concept of _love_ and _romance_ , of holding hands and kissing with someone of that age, and tucks Arthur's voiced theory into the deepest caverns of his mind.

_No matter,_ Bill thinks, letting the sweaty top obstruct the image of his soulmark, his _blessing_ , once more. His mind only just comprehends the hardships he's about to embark on, but looking at his parents, at the gentle smiles and the lightest of touches that inspire such joy that hums through their shared mark, makes him believe it will be worth it. 

_I'll find you; I promise_.

* * *

* * *

**AN HOUR EARLIER** , Hermione Jean Granger was born into this world.

Her mother had been light-headed and frozen with pure fear, clutching at her husband's fingers when their newborn had let out the worst of wails; the kind that seeped into one's pores and bones and soul. A choked sob had escaped Monica's parched lips as her baby girl continued to shriek her anguish.

**(** _Make it stop, God._ Please— _let her be well_ — **)**

But their doctor, an associate of David's, had simply taken his mask off, their precious cargo in hand, and said:

"Congratulations."

It took a moment for the Grangers to comprehend the meaning behind it, until their daughter's slick arm had gone up in the air and they spotted the tiny line of black cursive on her forearm.

Of course.

Those who are born with a mark have to deal with the pain of the very _soul_ as it recognizes its other half somewhere, someplace, not with them; all the while processing the shock of their new surroundings to the best of their capabilities.

Monica can barely feel her arms going slack with the relief that washes over her, the tears of pure joy that prick at her tired eyes. Doctor Henry brings up their newborn to her bedside, and David steps back, wanting his wife to have the first proper peek at the baby she's been nurturing for the longest time.

Only when the bundle of blankets is laden in her arms does Monica let the tears roll down her fevered cheeks. She coos softly at the sleeping babe nestled in her embrace, and barely registers the two sets of newly-made grandparents shuffle into the room.

"Little Jean?" She can make out her own mother's voice against the slight ringing in her ears, horse and aged, and lost of all its former strength. David and she had decided to name their daughter in her honor, but as the baby rustles in her soft confinement, Monica drinks in the curled marking on her _tinytinytiny_ forearm.

"No." A weak snort puffs out of Monica as her brown, squinting eyes read the careful cursive, and her lips curl into a teasing smile. " _Hermione_."

Her mother frowns, dark hands wrinkled and clutching at her thumbed through copy of _The Winter's Tale_ —Jean and Monica's favorite. There's a slight pause of confusion in the air, but as Monica carefully pries the blanket off of her daughter, she lifts her small hand up into the air for them to see, and soon, excited gasps erupt across the confined space.

"Is that.?" David's mother's eyes glimmer as she steps closer to the new family, and Monica bops her head, carefully placing their baby— _Hermione_ —into her husband's awaiting arms as everyone nestles in closer to take a proper look at the magical inscription.

There, as plain as day, albeit small for a time, lays the text: _Nice to meet you, Hermione_.

_Oh_ , their child is truly and utterly special.


End file.
